Of Photographs and Flashbacks
by AnneM.Oliver
Summary: He would follow her anywhere. She was his guiding light, way toward redemption and righteousness...his own Northern star. She was attracted to him by an unseen desire, lured to him as if he were a magnet, or her own lodestone. A short Dramione story.
1. Chapter 1

all characters belong to JKRowling and I make no money from the writing or publishing or this story.

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_**Of Photographs and Flashbacks**_

_**By**_

_**AnneM**_

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**Prologue: (Really, the end – so the Epilogue)**

The sun felt so good on her face. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She could actually 'feel' the warmth of the sun. Not the actual heat…she didn't equate warmth with temperature or degrees. She could _feel_ the actual 'warmth'. It felt like the colour yellow and orange combined, mixed together, and plastered on her soul.

She inhaled yet another deep breath, then a third and opened her eyes. It was a good day today. Yesterday was a bad day. Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day. She had nothing better to do than to compare her days. All she did was pass the time, waiting for the days to come, good or bad, and then live them out as was predetermined, day by day, with each memory measured inch by inch, and each breath inhaled ounce by ounce. The pain was more bearable than usual, which was good. Sometimes the pain poured out of her liter by liter, like her lifeblood passing through her, and when the pain was unbearable, life was almost unbearable.

But it wasn't so intolerable today. The memories didn't haunt her today. The pain wasn't fresh, the wounds weren't festering. Yes, it was a good day.

The sky was so blue today that it almost made her ache with want. The blue of the sky mixed with the yellow of the sun combined to make a green so full of life that she almost forgot for a moment the reason she was even here at this place. She wanted to strip herself of all her bindings, (metaphorically and superlatively) and start walking until she reached the end of the path, then she would walk farther still until she reached the end of the lane, then she'd be really daring and walk farther and farther until she reached the dense woods. What would she dare to do next?

Oh, how wonderful it would be to be so very courageous once again and to cast aside all unwanted forms of chains and hindrances, to start out at leisurely walk, walk to a canter, canter to a run, run to a sprint, pick up her feet and fly…far away, over the woods, over the rooftops, bypass the towns, to the ocean.

She'd lie upon the shore, thread the sand through her fingertips, throw shells back into the sea and lean her head back on her neck and feel the warm yellow of the sun upon her face and feel the cool blue of the sky against her skin.

Oh, the secret, impulsive wishes that would forever be unfulfilled.

Glancing over to the bench a short distance away, she sees him watching her. He's always there, on that same bench, the same time of day as she, and though she sometimes reads, or cries, or closes her eyes, he never deviates from his usual, daily ritual. He never does anything but watch her. He never falters. If it rains, he's there. It it's sunny, like today, he's there. If no one else was around, he's there. Even the days that she's not there, he's there. Does that make him the stalker or her?

Truthfully, it's like he's a thorn in her side, twisting, turning, always reminding her that she's not alone, and that no matter what, that a '_once in a while sunny day'_ and that a '_once in a while sun on her face feeling'_ was a passing fancy, and not something in which she should become reliant upon. Oh no. He won't let her become complacent. He won't let her remain inert. He won't let her forgive, forget, or falter.

As if she could forget. He's pressed inside her memory like a photograph or a flashback. His face was imprinted in her skull, along with every single conversation they've ever had and every single moment they've ever shared. She couldn't forget him if she tried, not that she really wanted to forget him.

Although...she wanted to forget sometimes. He won't let her. How like him. He always was so arrogant. Always so unrelenting, thinking he knew more than the rest. He always thought he knew what was best for her. Glaring back at him for a change, she dared him in her mind to look her in the eyes this time…come on brave man, _look at her, look at her, look at her, look at her, look at her,_ if you dare. If she chanted it enough times in her mind, he usually did.

Never one to disappoint, his face turned slightly, his eyes went from staring out before him, and he glanced directly into her eyes. The brightness of the blue sky and the brilliance shimmering of the yellow sun could not compare to the striking intensity of his ice-grey stare, or the incredible, vivid radiance of his once handsome face. Of course he stared at her. He always did. But then again, he always would. She knew that. She found comfort in it, if she would only admit it to herself. His eyes had been looking into hers for over sixty years. Why would they stop now?

She turned her eyes from his and remembered a long forgotten memory from the past.

**Memory 1 –**

"It would be better to tear the place down, level it completely, and start from scratch."

Hermione shot Draco Malfoy an exasperated glance and then humphed. He wasn't speaking to her, exactly, so she ignored him and continued to pick up large pieces of debris: wood, stones, rocks, and place them on the makeshift pallet to her left. She turned and her right foot caught on the end of the pallet and she started to stumble, fall.

He sprang forward faster than she anticipated. Strong arms righted her from behind, steadying her, but releasing her just as quickly. She turned her face sideways to look over at him, but he was already stalking away, complaining about something else.

Why was he complaining? So what if he was sentenced to help clean up their old school after the Battle of Hogwarts? Many people felt he belonged in prison with his mother and father. Helping to rebuild a castle was a small price to pay.

Likewise, many of the people here, Hermione included, decided to give up their summer to help restore the old magical castle to its former glory, giving of themselves and their time AT A TIME when there was so little to give. She felt torn in two as it was…away from Ron, away from her parents who had just returned home, yet she wanted to come here and give back to a school that had given so much to her.

She stretched her spine, because it had a crick, and then smoothed the back of her hand over her brow. She heard someone bark an order to Draco and some of the other former Slytherin seventh years who were here this summer. She looked over her shoulder and saw Draco pick up the large branch that was indicated, throw it over his shoulder, and grunt in disgust.

Hermione bent at the waist again, reached out to pull at another large piece of debris, when she saw a small cluster of blue flowers. They looked so beautiful, but foreign, lost and alone in a small little heap amongst the broken down ruins in this part of the grounds.

She sat on her bottom and touched the little blue petals. The colour was more violet than blue, she could see that now. She was aware that she made a little sound in the back of her throat, a sound of wonderment, questioning, asking. Reaching out for the cluster of flowers, she stroked the petals and asked softly, "What type of flower are you and how did you survive? You're so beautiful, but somehow the ugliness around you didn't touch you, because you're still beautiful and untouched from all the tainted evilness, cruelty and hatred that hang so clearly around you."

"The same could be said of you," she heard a voice say over her shoulder. She felt an intense heat behind her and then she felt his knee pressing against her back as he squatted next to her. Her hand was still touching the small petals, and his hand came to touch them, too. She moved her hand as quickly as she could, turned her head, and narrowed her eyes to him.

"Pardon?"

He didn't repeat his observation. Instead, he watched her intently, though his hand was now gently stroking the petals of the flower. She moved her hand to the ground, but it was still close. The heat of his body warmed her very soul, and as a breeze blew a lock of her hair forward, it touched his cheek, and he reached up with his other hand and hooked it behind her ear, then moved that hand so quickly down her back that she might not even have known it happened if she hadn't felt the imprint on the very same soul that his body had just warmed.

He stood hastily, almost as if he were embarrassed, and now as he stood, and she sat, she noticed that he had the small spray of flowers in his other hand. He had plucked them from the earth so suddenly she didn't even notice. He held them out to her and said, "They would have become trampled. Take them. They're hyacinth."

She stood and took the offering. His hand touched hers briefly, and she felt calluses from his hand on her hand and she wondered for a split second what his hands would feel like on the sensitive skin of the rest of her body.

She wasn't aware of closing her eyes until they were closed. She knew only that she YEARNED for something….something unknown, something unnamed, something lingering and wanting and haunting.

Then she felt the stroke of his work-rough hand caress her cheek as fleetingly as the wind, and before she could open her eyes, his hand dropped back down to his side. He strode away. She balled her hands into fists at her sides, her right hand still holding the cluster of flowers. Glancing around the ruins she knew that nothing here would heal if it wasn't nurtured.

Nothing. Including him. Tears began to flow down her face and she wiped them away with a shaking hand that betrayed her bravado. She knew instantly that she wasn't here to help rebuild a castle. She was here to help rebuild a man, and in the end, to help rebuild her own shattered soul.

_Author's Notes: So there isn't any confusion, I DID mean to start with the epilogue, not the prologue, because I'm starting this at the end of the story, and then telling it with a series of 'flashbacks' and 'memories'. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

all characters belong to JKRowling and I make no money from the writing or publishing or this story.

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**Memory 2 -**

Draco continued to sit in the large tent after their meal, and continued to listen to some boring man prattle on and on about things that only an idiot would wish to hear, and he did it for one reason and one reason only. The only reason he was in this tent, instead of in his own, or out walking the grounds, was to be close to her…not that he would admit that to anyone.

Acting as if he was paying the utmost attention to the man's story, he noticed that she really was paying attention. Her eyes sparkled as the man spoke to the group, and her lips curved into a smile when he said something witty, and a very strange thing happened at that exact moment - Draco's cock twitched. He adjusted his trousers and moved slightly so that his legs were fully under the table before him. If anyone would ever see his embarrassing display of common gaucheness, over a mudblood no less, he would never live it down. He took a sip of butterbeer and as the mug was lowering to the table he splashed some on the surface, but no one noticed that, so he hoped no one noticed anything else amiss. He swiped the spillage with the sleeve of his shirt and continued to feign interest.

However, she went from paying attention to the man to reading the book in front of her. How smart of her to read instead of paying mind to the rest of the man's boring tale. Her hair sparkled with golden hues from the light of the fire emitting from a lantern, which was only a hand's width away from her. He noticed how swiftly her hand moved from her lap up to turn the page of her book. It moved silently, effortlessly, gracefully. She paused to stare at her nails. If they looked anything like his, they were probably a mess.

She rubbed at a blister on her index finger, and then moved her hands back to her lap, her face moving back to the page of her book, her hair falling down to curtain part of her face from his view.

He didn't want to appear that he was staring at her, although he was, so he leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the back two legs, and propped his feet upon the corner of the table. With his new position, he affected ease, and placed his arms behind his head, and laughed along with the rest of the crowd when the man came to the end of his longwinded tale.

Hermione looked up from her book, smiled as well, and then took a deep breath. Glancing around the tent, she ended her pilgrimage at him. She stared at him. He stared at her. She stood up, moved her book toward the end of the table, and started to close it slowly, placing a small spray of pressed blue flowers between the pages to mark her spot.

Interesting. She had kept the flowers he had given her.

Then she left the tent.

Reasoning that a girl shouldn't walk around the grounds of a completely safe and empty school unattended, Malfoy waited a few moments, righted his chair, placed his feet on the ground, announced to his mate Theo that he was going for a walk before retiring for bed, and then he too left the tent.

He saw her outlined figure walking amongst the shadows and moonbeams near what were once the greenhouses. He approached slowly, not wanted to scare her. They had been here together, at Hogwarts, helping with the renovation, for nearly two weeks, and he had yet to truly speak with her, although he wanted to talk with her very badly.

He wanted to ask her why she was here. He had heard from others that she was here because she thought it was her 'civic' duty. What a bunch of beetle dung. Civic duty, his arse. HE was only here because it was either this or house arrest for twelve months. He thought three months spent at Hogwarts, during the summer, moving around rocks and rubble in the Scottish countryside, was a cakewalk compared to a year locked up in a house that held more bad memories than good, where he would be all alone, (since his parents were both sentenced to prison) and where he had already spent almost a year previously in the shadows of hell.

Yes, that's why Draco was here. Why was Hermione Granger here? Why was she REALLY here? He looked around for her, having temporarily lost her in the darkness of the night, when suddenly he spied her, dimly, walking toward him, with her head down. Her body looked so pale in the darkness. Her footsteps crunched and echoed on the path underneath her feet. He followed her path, coming upon her quickly. He was almost upon her when he asked the question that was on his mind. "Why are you here?"

She gasped, placed her hand on her chest, and looked up at him with a look that was part fear, part surprise. "You scared me," she stated the obvious. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you're cold out here?" he lied. He didn't know why he lied. He lied all the time, so he never second guessed why he did it, yet with her, lying made him feel small and petty.

"It's not very cold," she contrived, although her hands went immediately to her arms and she began to rub them up and down briskly.

He raised one eyebrow, questioning her objections and her actions, but whether or not his sarcasm was wasted on her on such a dark night would not be known, because she amended, "It is a bit cold."

"Why are you here?" he asked again.

She looked up at the sky. "I'm looking up at the stars. I've always thought they looked brighter here, more so than anywhere else in the world."

"Hmm," he contradicted slightly. "They look the same to me." Still, he looked up at the sky, only because she was looking up at the sky. Hell, a sky was a sky was sky was a sky, right? No matter where it was.

She leaned closer to him and pointed upward and she rattled on about some nonsense, yet he couldn't concentrate on a thing she said, because a small curl of her hair was actually touching his cheek, tickling his skin, setting his heart on fire. WHY WAS SHE HERE? "You shouldn't be here," he barked, well aware he was interrupting her little speech about the stars, and well aware he didn't care if he interrupted her or not.

Folding her arms in front of her, she snorted. _Snorted._ Now, he either wanted to laugh at her or kiss her, because she SNORTED at him. How quaint. Before he could do either, or neither, she said, "I have every right to be here, Malfoy! I know you'll never understand that! I know you'll never accept that fact. We could fight a million wars, for a million years, yet someone like you will always think that someone like me is inferior to them, and you know what, I no longer care what you think!"

She started to storm away, only to clomp back toward him. She poked him in the chest with her index finger and said, "I used to care! I used to care so much that I would cry myself to sleep, wondering what I did to make people like you hate me, but I NO LONGER CARE!"

Somehow, he doubted that very much. He rather thought she still cared, or else she wouldn't protest quite so much, furthermore, he knew that for some odd reason he cared. He never cared before, but suddenly, he cared very, very much now, and he knew that she still cared very, very much, too. That thought made him either want to weep or laugh aloud.

He laughed. That was probably the wrong thing to do, because Hermione Granger assumed he was laughing at her. She placed both hands on his chest and pushed him as hard as she could, which wasn't very hard at all. "Would it kill you to be nice?" she shouted.

Was that truly her argument now? That he wasn't NICE enough? Hell, of course he wasn't nice. No one ever claimed he was nice, and it certainly wasn't something that he strived to be. He frowned down at her, poked HER in the chest with his finger, and walked toward her on the path, so that she had to walk away from him, backwards.

"Nice? You want me to be, what…nice? I'm here in this forsaken hellhole that I thought I'd never have to be at again, I'm made to do manual labour, MANUAL, Granger, no magic, like some common Muggle, all because a bunch of people think I committed sins against humanity. I have to live in a tent with four other blokes, I have to do my own laundry, I have to eat food that a troll wouldn't eat, AND I have to listen to long diatribes and boring stories every night because unlike you, I don't even have a bloody book to read, and yet you want me to be nice? Why don't you be nice, and let me read one of your book?"

He was embarrassed the moment it all came tumbling out of his mouth. The moment he said it he realized that he _did _want to be nicer. He felt extreme guilt that his punishment (_which was not that bad_) did not even begin to measure that of his crimes (_which were horrible_) yet he didn't know what else to say to her, especially when her whole argument was based on the adage, 'why aren't you nicer?' Only Hermione Granger would say something like that.

She turned around in a hurry and huffed away in the darkness. He continued to walk around the gravel worn path until he was certain his tent mates were sleeping. When he finally decided it was late enough to go to sleep, he pulled back the tent flap, and walked slowly over to his cot, throwing his body, without ceremony, down upon it.

"Ouch!" His hip hit something hard. He moved his body slightly, rolling over to his side, and he pulled at the hard object on which he landed. It was a book. Draco picked it up and moved to the edge of his bed. Hermione Granger must have given him one of her books.

Huh. Damn. She _was_ nice. Now he would have to be nice in return. See, he did care. He really did.


	3. Chapter 3

all characters belong to JKRowling and I make no money from the writing or publishing or this story.

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**Memory Three – ****  
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"I bet you can't top that," Malfoy bragged.

Hermione looked up from where she was seated on the ground, on that bright July morning, not far away, on their old Quidditch pitch, and she rolled her eyes. She turned the page of her book and thought, _'boys are such little boys sometimes'_. True, it was Sunday, their 'day off', and they weren't supposed to be working today, so she supposed these cast-offs could spend their free time doing whatever they wanted to do.

Still, did they have to 'play' near her? If they put half as much effort into their toil and work as they did into their play, perhaps things would go quicker and smoother than it usually did.

Malfoy, Nott, and two others were throwing stones across the field to see who could get their stone closest to the old Quidditch post. Seriously. Couldn't they think of anything else do to? True, they weren't allowed to have their wands as part of their punishment, and they couldn't ride brooms for the same reason, and they couldn't leave the school grounds either, but surely they could talk, or take a walk, or read. Hermione had given Draco a very good book to read only a few days ago. He couldn't have finished it yet.

Nott threw a rather large rock farther than Malfoy's rock and everyone laughed, save for Malfoy, who moaned and whined and accused Nott of cheating. Hermione had enough of their antics and was about to go find another place to read, (even though she was here first) as the boys continued to laugh. Nott proclaimed himself the winner and said, "We're out of rocks gentlemen, and my last one was closest, so I win, unless we can convince the only person in the vicinity with a wand to get all of our rocks back for us?" All eyes turned to Hermione.

Hermione, (who had had enough of their juvenile behaviour) wanted to use her wand and blow all of the rocks into smithereens instead of retrieving them for them. She was about to do just that when one of the boys shouted, "Hey mudblood, be a sweet little dear and use your wand to retrieve all those rocks for us, so we don't have to run across the field to get them, alright?"

Hermione stayed seated on the ground, but closed her book and opened her mouth, in true horror at how easily he said that word, especially under the circumstances that he was here, at this place, repairing damage caused by a war to stop oppression and tyranny caused by a lunatic who saw her kind as inferior.

When she didn't respond, or move in anyway, the oldest looking boy in their group said, "The mudblood's no fun."

Hermione grimaced and turned back to her book, but not before she glanced at Draco. His expression was unreadable, and unchangeable. She didn't know why she thought he would care. He had called her that name so many times growing up that she had lost count. She tried to tune out the laughter that followed that quaint little remark, but it was difficult, especially as it was followed by Nott saying, "she never was any fun," and by a remark made by the first boy of, "if we had won the war, just think, they'd be no more mudbloods anywhere. Wouldn't that be nice? She would have been the first one gone, too."

Hermione stood up at that sentiment and stared at the small crowd of boys. That statement was uncalled for and it angered her. Her chest heaved and she stared intently in each of their eyes, first at Nott's, then at the older boy's, then at the cruelest boy, and then at Malfoy. She kept her gaze on him the longest, even though she knew he wasn't the one who said it. In fact, she thought he looked slightly shocked by the whole thing.

One of the Aurors, who was acting as a sort of supervisor, walked by just at that moment. He was slightly older than them, and he had been very protective toward Hermione since the beginning. He could tell something was amiss as soon as he walked near. "Is something wrong, Hermione?" He wandered closer and added, "Did one of these boys say something to you? What is it?"

She felt a constrictive, heavy band around her chest, and she wanted to rat the boys out, she wanted to tell on them, and tell the Auror that they called her a mudblood and that they wished her dead, and that they were lazy and bad boys, and oh yes, she plain didn't like them. Yet she didn't like anyone fighting her battles for her, so she insisted, "Nothing's wrong," and she turned back to her book, sat back down next to the wall, and started to read again.

He didn't believe her. He walked toward the boys and said, "Remember, each of you, if you fail here, or cause trouble of any kind, you can easily be placed in Azkaban or some sort of other assignment. Think about it."

And as soon as the Auror walked away the boys retrieved their rocks and then went back to throwing them at the broken Quidditch post.

Hermione wanted to leave. She wanted to cry. However, she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her do either. After another forty-five minutes of play, the boys left the pitch for lunch. When she was quite alone, she placed her book on the ground, pulled her knees up to her chest, placed her face in her hands and cried.

Things would never be different, no matter how much they changed.

After only a few moments she felt warmth next to her, and then sensed that someone had sat down. She turned her face away from the person, drew her hands across her cheeks to wipe away errant tears, and she opened her book back up to some page that she had already read. She assumed the person sitting next to her was the Auror, who was here to give her a speech full of encouragement, though she didn't need or want it.

An apple was dropped onto her open book, along with a bottle of water. She looked over and next to her sat Draco Malfoy. He opened the book that she had placed in his tent days ago, and he started to read. He had an apple in his hand. He took a large bite, the crunch of the apple sounding loud in the quiet confines of the intimacy between them.

He turned the page, but didn't turn his head to look at her. She was glad it was him and not the Auror. She knew he wouldn't talk to her, or ask her questions, such as why she was crying, or why didn't she hex the boys as soon as they called her that name. He would remain quiet. He would give her quiet strength and quiet encouragement, which was all that she craved.

It was odd, but to her, Draco Malfoy represented a sort of touchstone, a silent, reserve source of strength, and something that represented 'home'. Oddly, she also saw him as a sort of lodestone, because she was becoming highly attracted to him.

She turned back to her book and began to eat her apple. Soon, she almost forgot he was there. Finishing her apple, her water, and the chapter that she had already read, she closed her book and stood up. He did the same.

He said, "I bet I can throw my apple core closer to that old Quidditch post than you can, Granger." He didn't wait for her to respond. He merely walked over toward the middle of the large field, placed his book and water bottle on the ground, and then pulled back his arm, and let go…his apple core sailed through the air at an amazing speed, and landed incredibly close to the post.

Hermione walked carefully, slowly, toward him. Heart beating in her throat, hands sweating, a bit confused, she placed her book and her bottle of water next to his on the grass and she handled the sticky apple core in her right hand. She started to throw it, under handed, and she heard him make a disgusted noise behind her.

She turned around quickly.

"It won't get far that way!" he complained.

"How shall I throw it?" she asked.

"Over handed!" he instructed.

Eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the apple core in her hand. She turned back around and pulled her arm back, about to throw the apple core over handed. He came up behind her, and stood so close that she felt his chest touching her back. She smelled his scent, a combination of linen and musk, and to her amazement, he placed his large, strong hand right over her fist holding the apple core. He pulled her hand back further, held it higher, and said, "There, you'll get a better trajectory this way, now, give it all you've got."

He moved away all too soon.

She threw it as hard as she could. The apple core soared through the air, (she thought at an amazing speed) and it landed without ceremony, far, far away from his and the Quidditch post, but still farther than she expected.

She jumped up and down, actually happy, and she turned to him and smiled and said, "I did it! Did you see how far it went?"

And he smiled back at her.

She couldn't remember ever seeing Draco Malfoy actually smiling. Grimacing, yes. Smirking, definitely. Leering, undeniably. But never actually smiling. He was handsome when he smiled. Without forethought she said, "You're handsome when you smile." When she realized what she said she felt as shocked as she was when that mean boy called her a mudblood. To cover her blunder, or perhaps to add to it, she reached down for her book and water, picked them up, and started to run from the pitch.

He picked up his things and ran after her, calling her name. "GRANGER! STOP!"

She stopped running, out of breath, and turned around. "What?" she asked. She turned to face him.

He placed his right hand on the back of his neck, awkwardly, and said, "Thanks for thinking I'm handsome, and you know, I didn't call you a mudblood."

"I know."

"I just wanted to point that out," he stated. Dropping his hand to his side, he stepped closer. They were standing so close that she noticed his nostrils were flaring, because he was breathing hard, and his chest was heaving, as he was also breathing deeply, as if he were trying to catch his breath.

"Why are you having trouble breathing?" she asked.

He laughed, looked up to the blue sky, and said, "Why do you state the most asinine, yet obvious, things?"

"Do I?" she asked back.

"Yes, but that's okay," he answered. "Oh, and sorry for the mudblood thing." He tried to make light of it, but he knew that it hurt her, but he couldn't say more on the subject, not yet, maybe not ever.

Because right now, all he could do was noticed the stray hairs sticking out all over her head, even though her hair was pulled back in a braid. He noticed her eyes sparkling, from the sunlight, from the tears she had shed earlier, and from their natural inquisitiveness. He noticed her chest heaving as heavily as his, although he wondered if it was for the same reason.

He knew how hurt she was earlier when those other boys called her a mudblood, and although he had called her that very same thing many times, and he might very well call her that again someday, that didn't mean they had a right to call her it.

There was something about her that represented everything good and clean and right. It was as if he needed her here to follow as a path to righteousness. She was his lodestar. She was his home, at least for now, and the closest thing to family he had here, and he didn't want anyone to hurt her, or harm her, or make her sad.

They continued to stand there, staring awkwardly at each other, until Hermione said, "Do you want to go back to the Quidditch pitch and read?"

It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he wanted to be with her, and he had to follow her as she was his 'lodestar', so he found himself saying, "Yes."

He would follow her anywhere. She was his guiding light, his way toward redemption and his path toward righteousness, his own northern star. Likewise, she found that she was more than merely attracted to him…she was lured toward him by an unseen desire, almost as if he were a magnet. They were the lodestar and lodestone.


	4. Chapter 4

all characters belong to JKRowling and I make no money from the writing or publishing or this story.

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**Memory 4 –****  
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Not many things were constant in Draco Malfoy's life these days. He forever felt as if he were a man on a ledge, as if he were on a great precipice, about to fall down one side or the other. He didn't know what to expect after he left Hogwarts. That thought alone scared the shite out of him.

He liked to know what was expected of him. As of now, he knew that when he woke up each day he would eat breakfast, work for hours to help restore his former school, and then attend classes in the afternoon with the children of other Death Eaters. Even though the classes were useless, at least he had come to rely on the constancy of them. The classes taught them that pureblood prejudice was wrong, that everyone, whether they were Muggle-born, half blood, or pureblood, deserved their magic, and that hatred of another based on the purity of their blood was nothing more than simple hatred for the sake of hatred.

Hell, he already knew all of that. He didn't need to take classes to tell him that, but at least taking classes every day meant that he had a PLACE TO GO every day.

Yes, he had a few things that were unvarying…wake up, work, attend stupid classes, and eat three meals a day. But beyond those things, nothing seemed real or stable or obtainable. What about his future? What was he to do when the work here was done, and he was able to leave?

He didn't want to think about the future. The future was as painful as the past. He only wanted to think about the here and now, the present, the things he could touch, see, feel, and taste in the moment.

Lately, the rain was a constant. It seemed to be never-ending, and it kept everyone inside their tents, or inside the inhabited parts of the school. It also kept everyone from working, which was fine by Draco. He was tired of working, even if it was one of the few things that were consistent. He had been working, almost nonstop, for two months now, and he was ready for a reprieve. The problem was that the school was almost rebuilt and ready for a new school year, and that meant that Draco's life would be left in limbo, and he would once again have to worry about his future.

But for now, the only thing he had to worry about was the rain.

Granger was a constant as well, but for the last few days Draco had not seen or heard from her. She wasn't in the dining hall, which was mostly rebuilt and was where they were now eating their daily meals. She wasn't in the large tent where everyone gathered at night. He walked by her tent several times the last few days, in the rain, and he didn't hear her voice, and when the flap was open, he didn't see her inside.

He couldn't ask anyone where she was, or what had happened to her, for that would seem odd. It wasn't as if they were friends. It wasn't as if he had a vested interest in her (yet he did). Therefore, he played it cool, went about his business, but inside he waited and worried.

On the third day of rain, and the fourth day of no Granger, Draco decided to take a walk. His bunk mates thought him mad, for the rain was coming down in sheets, but since there was no threat from thunder or lightning, Draco didn't mind a little water. Perhaps the rain would wash away his sin, and cleanse his soul. Or perhaps it would only make him wet. One never knew about these things.

He walked far away from the school grounds, away from the encampment, over a hill, toward the Black Lake. When he was on top of the hill he saw her. He hadn't expected to see her; however, he had _hoped_ to see her. He didn't know whether to go down and join her, or leave her alone. Surely, she had come here to be by herself. She wanted privacy. She wanted solitude. He would respect that.

Nevertheless, he found his legs taking him toward her, down the hill, toward the lake.

Hermione knew she was no longer alone. She heard him walking behind her. To be frank, she felt him before she heard him. She had hoped that he would find her. She felt intense relief to know that she was not alone. She was tired of being alone. She hung her head, placed the tear-soaked, and now rain-soaked, letter back into the pocket of her jacket, and stared out toward the rippling water.

The rain was slacking off, so it was a slight drizzle, but even so, he could tell that she had been crying. Her face was only slightly wet from the rain, and even less from her tears, but her eyes were red, and he saw the way she quickly placed a hand up to her cheek to wipe away the remnants of tears. "Where have you been for the last few days?" he asked as he sat down on the small piece of wet ground beside her.

Looking at his long legs, instead of up into his eyes, she wondered something: what did he really want? What did she want in return?

She answered, "I went to the Burrow, to see Ron and Harry."

"Oh," he mustered as a response. He pulled on a long, wet blade of grass, letting it slip back and forth between his fingers. Finally, he said, "Why are you here, and they aren't?" It was a question that had been begging to be asked since the beginning.

"They didn't want to come," she answered, almost sharply. "I did. I loved this school. When I heard that it needed to be rebuilt, and also that they were going to help rehabilitate the children of Death Eaters here, I knew I wanted to help in some way. Also, I needed change. I was tired of the same old things in my life. I wanted to make a difference, do something important in my life. Also, you see, I want to go to University and study Magical Law, and coming here this summer will count as taking my NEWTS."

"Oh," he responded once again. She was supplying more information than he needed, but less than he wanted. He felt she was glossing over things. She was delivering an answer that seemed well rehearsed, well planned, and practiced. She shivered and he noticed, so he removed his jacket and placed it promptly around her shoulders, even though she already wore a jacket.

She flinched slightly when his hands touched her shoulders, and she shivered more when his fingertips grazed her neck as he removed her hair from the collar, to place it on the outside of the lightweight coat. She could not think of a suitable thing to say as his hands slipped away from her shoulders, although a simple thank you would have sufficed. She looked up at the sky and said, "The rain's stopped."

"Yes, nothing's constant anymore," he replied in return.

She placed her cheek on her bent knees, turned her head to look at him and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Just that you said you wanted a change, and I like when things are constant. I hate change. It's been raining for days, so I found it comforting," he explained, suddenly discomfited by his choice of words. He turned his face away from hers to hide his embarrassment.

"Yes, and I like change," she said beside him. He turned back to look at her. He decided that she was very pretty. He had never really noticed before, but she was. She was pretty and unaffected and no matter what, she hadn't changed. She was the same as when he had first met her years ago, and he found comfort in that.

He asked, "Why do you like change?"

"It's challenging." She laughed. He liked the sound of her laughter. It was warm and sweet and it caused something inside of him to stir. "Oh, that sounds very stupid," she offered with a smile. "I don't know what I mean, but I know I just don't like everything to be so planned out and the same."

"Do you miss your friends?" he asked. He reached between his legs and pulled on the wet grass again. He pulled a blade out of the ground and let it drift from his hand, where it landed on her leg.

She brushed it off and said, "Yes. Ron wanted to marry me, did you know?"

He wanted to gag. Certain he was making a disgusted face; he turned away slightly and coughed to hide his discomfort. Asking, "Do you love him?" he then turned back to her to await her answer.

"I did, I mean…" she looked the other way, her knees drawn back up to her chin, her hair long and loose and wet and dark. He wondered what it would feel like against his cheek, his chest. When his hands touched it earlier, to remove it from the collar of his jacket, he nearly went mad from want. Forgetting that she had yet to answer, he was shocked when on a sigh she continued, "I love him as a friend, but that's not a good enough reason to marry someone."

He agreed, "No, no it's not."

She pulled the letter out of her pocket. She shoved it at him and with a painful expression she said, "I received this letter a few days ago. It's the reason I went to visit him. I broke his heart. I don't know if he'll ever forgive me. I went to see him, to try to smooth things over, mend our friendship, but there doesn't seem to be any hope."

Draco perused the private letter, which appeared to be from Weasley, for a few moments, and then handed it back to her. "Do you have a broken heart?"

"Perhaps a bruised one, but not broken," she began with a smile; "after all, I'm strong. I'll get over it. I have a wonderful future to look forward to, but it saddens me to know that I ruined the future that he had planned." She fell silent, embarrassed or perhaps she merely had nothing more to say. Draco continued to sit, unchanged, silently beside her.

She had her future mapped out nicely, even if she thought that she didn't. He found that thought amusing. She liked change, yet her future seemed secure. He liked steadiness, yet his was in the dark. Straightening one knee, he plucked another blade of grass, then another, and then threw them in the air and laughed aloud.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"You are," he answered. "We are. This is."

"Really?" she asked, with a smile, not a frown. He lifted the hand that had been playing with the wet grass and he let the index finger of that hand slide nervously down her face, from temple to chin. The smile left her face and she trembled, not from cold this time, but from something else.

"Yes, really," he answered as he withdrew his hand. "You're such an optimist. You have your life all mapped out before you, all planned so perfectly, without any detours or bumps in the road, and here I sit, with a 'Dead End' sign on my path, blocking my way, and well, excuse me, but that thought made me laugh for some odd reason, and I don't know why."

"You could go on to University after your time here is served. You could get a job somewhere. I mean, don't you have any idea what you're going to do after you leave here?" she asked.

He laughed. "No clue. Men of my station don't usually plan their lives. Their lives were generally planned for them. I had my money to fall back on; my blood status to rely upon, and my future was always secure because of both of those things. I still have both of those, but now they don't mean as much."

"Ah yes," she said with a smile, "your future used to be all about hating, torturing and hurting mudbloods, with millions of galleons sticking out of your pockets. It was quite an exciting future for you, too bad it was taken away."

He glared at her through narrow eyes, unsure if she was joking, but her smile did not vanish, so he knew she was. He smiled as well and said, "Don't forget about maiming mudbloods. I used to love the maiming part. And I may still do something along those lines when I leave here. Surely there's some sort of career where I could still hurt, maim and torture mudbloods and yet show the world I'm rehabilitated."

She stood up, removed his jacket from her shoulders, and dropping it directly on his head she said, "You, Malfoy, are wicked, and a cynic, and I doubt you will ever be fully rehabilitated."

He removed the jacket from his head, stood up, and draping it over his arm, said, "Can you picture me working for the Ministry someday? I could work for the Department of Muggle Affairs."

They both laughed.

"Do you ever feel guilty for the things you did?" she finally asked.

The smile left his face. "All the time," he answered quite honestly. "Do you, Hermione?"

"You know, I think that's the first time in our lives that you've called me Hermione," she relayed, "and to answer your question, I have nothing in which to feel guilty for, Draco Malfoy. Nothing at all."

She turned to walk away and she heard him whisper, "Liar."

She stalked back to him and said, "Excuse me?"

"You feel guilty for breaking Weasley's heart," he said matter of fact.

A breath caught in her throat. She wanted to strike Draco Malfoy right now, because he was convenient, close, and mostly because he was right. He seemed to understand her. She nodded, stepped closer, and placed her forehead against his chest.

He was in a predicament. He wanted to throw his arms around her, tell her it would be alright, comfort her, yet he also wanted to lift her into his arms, throw her onto the rain-soaked earth, and sink into her...place his mouth on hers, his body on top of hers, and ravish her very soul.

While he was trying to decide the course of his future - to ravish her or be a gentleman, she decided it for him. She placed her arms around his waist, gave him a brief hug, and then lifted her face to his and said, "I don't know what I'm going to do. I hate admitting that. Maybe I don't like change after all." Then she rose upon her toes and she kissed him, right on the lips.

The kiss was brief, but extraordinary. It was springtime and summertime and Christmas and Easter all wrapped up together. It was every happy moment, every cherished memory, and every subtle nuance that made her who she was, and made him want her for who she was.

Her arms went from around his waist to around his neck, and he let his slip around her waist. She pressed her lips firmer to his, moved her head slightly to the side, and with the new angle of her head, her lips moved slightly over his and he moaned and lifted her closer.

Then, almost before it began, it ended.

And just like that, the rain began again, harder than before, and she took his hand and together they ran hand-in-hand back toward the school, his future a bit more secure, hers a bit more vulnerable, but both feeling better for it, because now they were together.


	5. Chapter 5

all characters belong to JKRowling and I make no money from the writing or publishing or this story.

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**Memory Five –****  
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The summer was gone. Like every summer before it, it started sweetly, innocently anticipated and expected. And like every summer that had come and gone before it, it was now at an end, and like every summer before, the end was full of regret, sorrow, sadness and for some, relief.

Hogwarts was not the same as it was at the end of last summer, but in many ways that was a good thing. It still bore the scars of the battle that badgered it only a few months ago, and although it looked much the same, it was different, not only on the outside, and the inside, but through the eyes of the people who inhabited its hallowed halls.

The same could be said for the people who came to work there this summer. Many looked the same, but on the inside (and some on the outside), they bore a myriad of different scars. Some of the people came here this summer to make a difference, some came here because they were forced to do so, and some came for reasons that fell somewhere in-between.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy came to Hogwarts this summer for very different reasons, but they were leaving with mutual feelings – for each other – and for the things they had accomplished.

Sitting in a field of high grass during a free afternoon, two days before their work for the summer was to be over, Hermione turned to Draco and asked, "Have you decided what you're going to do when you leave here yet?"

Plucking a weed and tossing it over his shoulder, he said, "Does it matter?" He already knew that she would say, 'of course it does', when right on cue she said…

"Of course it matters," she begged to differ, pulling a Muggle sketching pad from her satchel. "You were only sentenced to do this work program for the summer, right?"

He nodded without making eye contact, fidgeting with another tall weed, moving the top of it to and fro with the flat of his hand.

"Well, then the summer's at an end," she continued. "It's time to make decisions. Your whole life awaits you, Draco Malfoy. You only have to decide what you want to do with it." She opened the pages of the sketch pad and placed the end of a lead pencil on the slightly rough surface of the papers. The sounds of her strokes blended with the sounds of the wind, the call of a robin, the buzz of a bee, and the sound of his breathing

"Are you still going to Uni?" he asked. Again, he already knew her answer before she spoke it.

"Yes and my parents are ecstatically happy," she revealed. "I've decided on a Wizarding University, since I want to study Magical Law. It starts in two weeks."

"Oh." He couldn't think of another reply. He wanted to convince her not to go, to stay with him somehow, but he had no valid argument to force her to that conclusion. They had become friends this summer, they had kissed twice, held hands, touched frequently, talked honestly, but Draco still didn't know what all of that meant. What were they to each other?

She clearly didn't want to marry. She wanted an education. Draco didn't know what he wanted, although he wouldn't balk at peace and happiness. Mostly, he wanted quiet and comfort, all of which he found with her. Would he seem pitiful if he asked to go with her? Abruptly, he stood up and turned away from her.

She asked, "What's wrong?"

He sounded harsher than he meant to sound when he answered, "Nothing. Never mind. Don't worry your pretty little head over it."

"If nothing's wrong, then sit back down. I'm drawing you," she rejoined. "I wanted to have something to remember you by."

That surprised him. "Take a photograph, then," he bit back, turning to face her. "Since when do you draw?"

"I've always drawn," she explained.

He stalked over to where she sat on the grass and gazed down at her sketch pad. Then he laughed, causing her to frown up at him. "That's supposed to be me?"

Next, she looked hurt when she looked up at him, but then she smiled back when she saw that he was smiling. "Yes, why?"

"Where's my shirt?" He pointed down at the pad of paper, his hand moving along imaginary lines. "You forgot to draw a shirt."

"I'll add the details later," she complained, seemingly embarrassed, closing the sketch pad quickly.

He chuckled and said, "I hate to inform you of this, but I think we've finally discovered something Hermione Granger isn't very good at, and that would be drawing."

Now she actually scowled up at him. Leaving her drawing utensils on the ground, she stood, pointed at him and huffed, "It's a new hobby, but I'll get better."

"Sweetheart," he started with amusement still in his voice and eyes, "someone either has talent or they don't."

For the first time since their strange and wonderful friendship began, Hermione thought of him as something different, all because he just called her 'sweetheart' and it came so naturally. It was the first time he had used any term of endearment to her, and though it was followed by a reprimand, it still caused her blood to still and her skin to burn. Swiftly, to hide her swirling, confusing attraction, she sat back down, picked up her pad, and opened it back up.

Then she said, "Out of line, Malfoy, and you could be more helpful, you know."

"How? I can't draw either." He watched her as she lowered her head over the pad, her hair falling in front of her face, her lips puckered tightly in concentration. Didn't she even notice that he had called her 'sweetheart'? He had been dying to call her that. He had been waiting for an opening for days, but he had to make it seem natural, but perhaps it was too blasé, because she didn't even notice.

He stood away from her and said, "I guess I could pose for you, or something. I didn't even know you were drawing me. I'll take my shirt off, if you'd like, that way you could accurately draw my chest."

Indignation all over her face, she said, "I was going to add the shirt later, honestly!"

"Sure, all artists draw their models nude and THEN add clothing," he teased. He could tell she was blushing and he knew why. She had seen him and his friends without their shirts on the other day, when they were working in the extreme heat. He was pleased that she had noticed him.

With her brown curls sparkling in the bright sunlight, he dared her in his mind to look back up at him. He asked, "Shall I pose?"

She looked up and he had his fist tucked under his chin, his face in profile, affecting the pose of 'the thinker'. She giggled and he too began to laugh. "Stop that," she ordered with another laugh. "Besides, I wouldn't want you to strike a pose that's not natural."

"So droll, Granger," he said with a smile.

"You know, you could… no, never mind."

"What?"

"It's just, well, I was wondering, would you mind removing your shirt?"

This time he asked the same thing, only louder and with more surprise. "WHAT?"

Hermione shook her head and quipped, "Never mind," again. He could tell that she was blushing deep scarlet now.

She went back to her drawing, swallowing hard, embarrassed. A few days ago, Draco and some of the other boys had been laying gravel on the road to Hogwarts, and they had all removed their shirts because of the heat. She walked by them and she was mesmerized by what she saw. Draco without a shirt was a beautiful thing to behold.

His summer of manual labor had caused his muscles to become larger and more defined, and while he was always tall and thin, he was now close to what Hermione would consider a 'perfect male specimen'. He was what she imagined the sculpture of 'David' to look like. His biceps and shoulders looked like granite and his forearms had long sinewy veins that seemed to be cut out of marble. He didn't have a lot of hair on his chest, which Hermione liked. His waist was thin, and his back was smooth, and truthfully, she was obsessed with his naked chest and since seeing him that day, she had thought of it almost non-stop.

Hence her foray into 'semi-nude' drawing.

She even had an erotic dream the other night, and Draco was the star. Since then, she had been trying to 'draw' his body from memory, but even when she was by herself, she would end up putting 'clothing' on his body, out of embarrassment, or guilt, or something in between. Having him see her sketches was the last thing she ever expected.

And now she asked him to remove his shirt for goodness sakes! What was wrong with her! What would he think? She continued to draw, aware that he was still standing a short distance away. She rubbed a line with her finger and slowly glanced up at him.

When she did, he was standing before her, closer than before, in only his trousers, his shirt at his feet before her.

She dropped her jaw in awe, and the pencil dropped from her fingers as well. Her mouth hung opened for what felt like an eternity, but no sound came out. Placing the sketch pad next to the pencil on the ground by her legs, she stood up and walked to where he stood.

Draco kept his expression calm as she stalked toward him. He had wondered when she would notice that he had removed his shirt. The other day, when she walked by as he and the other lads were working on the graveled road, he saw her watching them. He had a clue as to why. He knew his body had become closer to that of a man than that of a boy this summer.

He was excited that she should notice that. He noticed her body, so why shouldn't she notice his? After all, they had this odd and atypical attraction to each other, which neither could explain, and neither had pushed to explore. He wanted to explore it. No longer content with two or three kisses, hand holding, glances and touches, he wanted this woman.

Today might be the last day he would get his wish.

She was leaving in two days. He might not ever see her again. He had always been a selfish man, and one summer rebuilding a castle hadn't changed that. He wanted her and he would have her. The only difference from the way things used to be was that instead of him taking her without regard, he would let her take him instead. He would let her think it was her idea.

Standing toe to toe with him, he jumping back slightly when as her fingers skimmed his chest lightly. This might not have been a good plan after all. His blood was racing hot and fierce and the tighter he clenched his hands into fist at his sides, the tighter his muscles coiled and flexed, which meant the more fascinated she had become.

Light fingers whispered over his shoulders and down one arm, easing his hand from a fist, holding his hand in hers, and then dropping it to travel back up his arm and over his back. A single finger went down his spine and his cock jumped and he had to bite his bottom lip.

"You're so beautiful," she exclaimed, walking back around so that she was facing him again. He closed his eyes. He hadn't expected her to say something stupid like that. Why did she have to say that?

Her hands on his chest, her eyes moved with her hands, down to his abdomen. He wondered if she could see his erection. He wondered if she would know what it meant. Her hands were shaking slightly, out of nervousness or fear. He was shaking with desire and want.

When she told him he was beautiful he should have said it back, but it was too late now. He was a fool. A shirtless, quaking, 'erect' fool.

"Your skin is so soft, too," she retorted. "I didn't think it would be, and it's so much darker than it used to be." He didn't like her constant litany regarding his looks.

Flattening one palm, she ran it around his ribs, so he lifted that arm. His skin was as warm as it was soft. Her other hand went to the middle of his chest, over his heart. His heart was beating rapidly, and she knew why, so she started to step back, but he abruptly grabbed that hand, and kept her captive against him.

He released her hand only to grab the collar of her shirt with both hands, then he pulled her up against him, and whisper next to her mouth, "If I'm never going to see you again, I think it's only right for me to have something to remember you by, too, Granger. You'll have your drawing, after all."

"What do you want?" she asked humbly, "A photograph?"

"No. a memory." When he had kissed her previously, it had been nothing but playful and flirty. This time, it was evident that it meant something different. She stumbled against him when his hands moved from her collar to her back, molding her against him, then his lips slanted over hers, forcing her head up, and his mouth came down hard and hot.

She grasped his bare shoulders for leverage and moaned as he drank from her well. She felt alive, daring, aroused and needed. She wanted… something, everything, more than what she had. How could this man make her feel so alive and desirable?

His hands brushed against the outside of her breasts, and she stepped backwards, shocked, as warmth spread through her, settling between her legs. Kissing wasn't enough; she wanted more, much more. She brushed his hands aside, and said, "I want more."

He smiled. "Granger, you're a conundrum." It was a stupid thing to say, but then again, he was a stupid man sometimes. He delved on and said, "I'll be cautious. I won't tell a soul. You won't get pregnant. I want you very much. I'll be gentle and careful, I promise."

"Just shut up, won't you?" she leveled. She felt nervous enough, without his excessive talking.

He grinned at her, took her hand, and picked up his shirt from the ground. He found a discreet place, with high rocks and weeds, hidden from view, and placed his shirt on the grass.

Where he proceeded to make love to her.

He kissed her everywhere. Her hands twined around the back of his head, her mouth joined his, their breath mingled, her heart pounded. He felt reckless, and weak. He wanted to show her ultimate pleasure and no pain.

Wanting to say and do the right thing at the right time was difficult, but she was beyond the pale, exquisite, extraordinary, and when he felt her bare skin against his, and she called his name out when she climaxed, he thought he might cry.

They moved together, hip to hip, mouth still on mouth, her hands clutching his shoulders, digging her nails in deep, moaning with each push, each thrust, until it was done, and he withdrew, and sunk on his side next to her, pulling her close.

It would soon be time to dress. It would soon be time to walk back to their tents. It would soon be time say goodbye. Soon, summer would end.

And all of this would end as well.

But maybe everything didn't have to end for them. Maybe they could have a future together. Maybe they didn't have to have only this one summer, this one time together, this one moment, this one memory. Perhaps they could have an entire lifetime together. Life didn't have to be like a photograph – something you took out and examined every once in a while – things could be better than that, better than a distant flashback, which seemed to fade after a while.

Things could be permanent, real, lasting, forever.

This didn't have to be the end.

This could be their beginning. They could have a middle, then a future, and then someday an ending.

It would be nice to have an entire lifetime together. That would be better than any silly photograph or memory.

- The End -


End file.
